One in the Same
by pacesettergurl18
Summary: Three years before the 74th Hunger Games, the terrible happens to a small family living in District 11. A young girl named Caspia gets reaped, and the unthinkable becomes reality.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fanfiction! I would like to give a big thanks to JamieOdair, and advise you to read his fanfiction, also his first.**

I close my eyes, but sleep does not come. I relax my muscles, and yet dreams do not overtake me. And I know that they won't come. At least not tonight.

Quietly, I turn around and seek her warmth, to be assured she is still there. My hand lightly brushes her silky hair, and for a minute, I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. She is here. She is still with me.

I decide to get up, because I know it is worthless to stay in bed, even though it is still pitch black outside. As soon as I stand up, shivers overtake me. It must be thirty degrees outside, making the stone floors ice in our small cottage. I shouldn't say small. That is an overstatement. It is absolutely minuscule. It is only one room, one room with a bed, a table, a hearth, bathroom and a few cabinets. But I also know that just about everyone is District 11 lives under similar circumstances. And they have more of a family than us. Our neighbors have six children living in a space as small as ours. Really, it is a miracle how they manage it. In here, it is just me and my daughter, Caspia, and we still are cramped. But it wasn't always so. Before the accident, there were three of us.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. The white uniforms of the Peacekeepers, snatching her away. My Rosemary. My wife. I remember the screams of Caspia as she was wrenched from her mother's arms and placed into mine, the last despairing look that she gave me, her last words.

"Take care of her."

And then there was her scream, her shill shriek, a splash of crimson blood, and then silence. Before I could absorb what had happened, the backs of the Peacekeepers appeared in front of us, shielding us from the sight of her crumpled body. That was the last time I ever saw her.

I shake the memory of it from my mind. For three years, I have tried to forget, tried to make little Caspia forget, but it never really goes away. Reminders of Rosemary are everywhere. The dimples she had when she smiled engraved into her daughter's face. The sound of the mockingjay songs she so loved to listen to in the mornings. The exact grey color of Caspia's eyes.

I sit down at the table and light a candle, hoping the flicking flame doesn't waken the sleeping child. But it doesn't, which relieves me. Often, Caspia will wake up screaming into the night, screaming for the mother that she lost. And only my voice soothes her back to sleep. Tonight, she rests.

As I sit down, I pull out a swath of silk, hidden in a secret spot beneath the table, and run my fingers over it. I haven't ever touched this cloth. I could never bear it, could never bear to think of the terrible price it cost. But tonight is different. Tonight, it feels as if I need to be physically close to Rosemary, something that is impossible. So I reach for the basket of her old possessions. All of them are coated in a thick layer of dust. They haven't been moved in three years, thought about in three years. Unlike all the other times I approached the basket, the idea of holding Rosemary's things comforts me instead of torturing me. But with the items comes memories, flooding into my mind and consuming my thoughts.

"_Cinna!" called Rosemary from the little garden outside. I had been helping Caspia with her spellings that day. It had been a reaping, which meant that we had a rare, but well-deserved, break from harvesting in the orchards. Caspia was not yet old enough to be in the reaping, so the day hadn't been as drama-filled for us as it had been for the parents of the eligible tributes. _

"_Coming!" I called back, and patted Caspia's shoulders as I rose. She stared up at me with her deep, grey eyes questioningly. Even though she had been only ten that day, she knew what happened inside our district. She understood the harsh cruelties that were dealt out every day. She had seen them with her own eyes. And that knowledge, that constant fear, stripped her of the childhood innocence that most her age had and replaced it with a world-weary adult._

"_Don't worry my little Mockingjay," I said in reassurance, calling her by her pet name that Rosemary used. She used to say that Caspia could sing sweeter than a mockingjay, and from that point on named her after the bird. _

_Caspia gave me one of her rare smiles and I couldn't help but smile back._

_Out in the garden, Rosemary was leaning into the wall of our home, trying to keep the sun off her face. That day was especially hot; it was almost one-hundred and three._

"_Yes?" I responded, joining her in the shade. Her grey eyes, so like her daughter's, were shining with excitement._

"_I have an idea," she whispered, an almost girly delight on her face. Rosemary's excitement was infective, and I couldn't help but share it._

"_Yes?" I urged her on._

"_Well," she said hurriedly. "What if I went and bought some lovely pink silk and make Caspia a new dress? You know, she is such a pretty girl, and that little rag she wears does her no justice. Please?"_

_I was somewhat taken aback by this request. Silk was such an extravagant thing, something that only the rich of our district could afford._

"_Why?" I asked blankly. I could tell that Rosemary was a little disappointed in my lack of excitement over her idea._

"_Because I have been itching to make her one, the dress she has is becoming far too tight for her," she said._

_And then it hit me. Rosemary loved to design clothes and she loved dressing up Caspia in the ones that she made. This was her idea of a bit of happiness. And if that's what it took to bring joy back to her weary face, then that it would be._

"_Sure," I grinned. "How much do you need?"_

"_It's five dollars for six yards of silk."_

"_Go ahead," I responded, and then her face bloomed with happiness as she rushed in to get the little can of money. In all honesty, I was a little apprehensive, because five dollars was almost half of our savings. _

_Although she promised me it would be less than a half-hour, it took nearly three hours before she came back, and when she did, I saw she was being escorted by three Peacekeepers. I watched them approach our door, dread filling my gut. When they arrived, I was waiting outside, twisting my hands anxiously._

"_What happened?" I asked, trying to sound polite and calm._

"_Rosemary Ayersion, charged with one count of serious stealing. Sentence is death," said one of the Peacekeepers shortly. _

"_Stealing? Death?" I responded blankly. "What did she do?"_

_By this time, Caspia had joined me at the door frame._

"_Mommy!" she had cried, ducking under my arms and running to her mother. The Peacekeepers tried to pry Caspia off her, which only increased her screams. At this point, neighbors were coming out to see what was happening. _

_I ran out to try and free Rosemary and Caspia, but I was shoved back by the largest Peacekeeper. Frantically, I pushed against him, but he struck me hard against across my face. The momentary shock caused me to stagger and lose whatever footing I had against the Peacekeeper._

_I saw the situation intensifying. Caspia was clinging to her mother's waist as she fought them, her usually neat hair in disarray. But I knew, despite Rosemary's determination, was going to be overwhelmed any minute._

"_Cinna, take Caspia!" she screamed in a strangled voice. I rushed forward to take the kicking child from one of the Peacekeepers. They now had her on her knees, hands locked behind her back._

"_Take care of her," Rosemary mouthed to me, and then darted her eyes to the left, where the silk lay, forgotten. And I understood. She had stolen the silk for her daughter, the precious luxury, and sacrificed her life for it._

"Dad? Is that you? Are you up?" I see Caspia sitting up. She is thirteen now, and every day looks more like her mother.

"Yes, I am awake," I whisper. "Are you going back to sleep?"

She shakes her dark, curly head and joins me at the table, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I quickly hide the silk and the basket. I don't want to remind her she probably doesn't remember yet.

"Go back to sleep," I say gently.

"But I can't," Caspia answers softly. And then, as if she can read my mind, she says, "I know what is day it is. You don't have to try and hide it from me."

The sadness in her voice makes a knot form in my throat. I can't talk.

"It's okay," whispers Caspia, and she puts her small, warm hand on top of mine. Whether she is talking about the upcoming reaping, or about Rosemary, I can't tell. And I choose not to ask. Closing my eyes, I try to control my emotions, and when I reopen them, Caspia is back in bed.

I take the silk back out and unravel it, extending it to its full length. As I do, I hear something heavy fall from its folds.

Bending down, I realize it's a small, leather bound book I have never seen before. I pick it up, and skim through it, realizing that it is a diary. And not just anyone's diary. It's Rosemary's.

_June 6th,_

_Today was little Caspia's second birthday. Cinna and I had just a small celebration, but it was lovely all the same. She is growing up so fast! I can't wait to see what she becomes._

_-Rose_

A faint smile traces my lips as I read the next entry. Rosemary seemed so happy, yet I know that those were hard times we lived. Food was scarce and happy moments were scarcer. Yet Rosemary could bring light to even the darkest days.

_January 14th,_

_For the first time is forever, our family got a whole meal, complete with sweet apple juice and all! It was so delicious that I wanted more, even though I had eaten my fill. It feels so good to be well- fed and even better when you see the ones you love full too._

_-Rose_

I don't know how long I sit there, flipping through those pages. But I know that every entry that I read, it feels as if a piece of Rosemary comes back to me. And for a moment, it feels like she with me. But when I reach the end of the diary, reality takes hold again, and I feel my old sorrow return. Stabs of pain grow stronger, and the dull ache in my chest intensifies. A tear splashes on the page before me. The ink smears, and I quickly rub my eyes.

_Not again,_ I remind myself.

When Rosemary died, I lost the will to live. Caspia had to fend for herself for three days, three days in which I refused to eat, or move. I remember the hurt look in Caspia's eyes when I told her to leave me alone. And I remember how emancipated her face looked. Ultimately, that's what woke me up. I had to support Caspia. I had to remind myself that I wasn't the only one hurting. That Caspia had lost someone too. And I haven't cried since.

I see the ink bleeding through the next three blank pages. I try and clean them, and as I do, I see that there is more writing in the back. A sense of excitement mounts as I slowly flip to the back of the book, and I gasp.

On every page are neat little drawings of designs for dresses. There are long, elegant ones, like the Capitol women wear, and short, stylish ones, dresses for girls Caspia's age, working dresses, and more. As I turn each page, the designs get more dramatic. I see a picture of a cape on fire, behind a girl that looks a lot like Caspia. There is even a dress whose colors are exactly that of a mockingjay. Rosemary's skill with the pen and design blow me away. I always knew that she liked making Caspia's clothes, but not to this magnitude…

On the very last page, I am startled to see a little pink dress, made up of the fabric in my hands. This was what she wanted to make for Caspia. The dress is simple, really, with a U-cut neckline and a ribbon tied around the middle, but I know it is a dress that Caspia would love.

Bending closer, I read the little note scrawled underneath:

_For my little flower, Caspia. You remind me of everything sweet, just like this dress._

And my resolve grows stronger. I know what to do.

Straightening my chair, I reach inside Rosemary's basket and carefully pull out her sewing kit. Since I don't know how to sew, I am a little apprehensive. But I have a goal. I want that dress done for Caspia for the reaping tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: If you like Hunger Games fanfictions, check out JamieOdair's fanfiction!**

I start slowly, testing the needle in my hands. The cold steel feels _right_ in my hands, there's no other way to describe it. And as I study the design, I see the needed pieces in front of me. A small smile breaks onto my face.

_I can do this._

After the parts of the dress are cut out of the silk, I select a matching pink thread, and lace it through the eye of the needle. It takes me a few tries, but in the end I do it. After, I neatly tie off the ends like I saw Rosemary and the other women of our district do. And to this point, I feel pretty confident in my rudimentary skills until I realize I have no idea what to start with. Tentatively, I pick up the two pieces that will make the body of the dress and begin.

The next three hours pass, and my speed gets faster and faster. It is like my hands learned how to sew long ago, and as time goes on, they remember more. But, the funny thing is, the longer I go, the more I realize that I actually enjoy this. That I actually _like_ it.

It is nearly dawn when my dress is complete. My hands are cramped, my eyes are red and raw, yet I am pleased. I am pleased because I accomplished something. I am pleased because now I finally have something to give to Caspia, something that will bring a smile to her tired face.

I get up, and start a fire in the hearth. Soon, it will be breakfast time. And in a few hours, a boy and a girl will be sentenced to an almost certain death. And there is a chance that it could be Caspia. I shake that idea from my mind.

Picking the finished dress up, I hold it back and admire my handiwork. It is not perfect, but it is not sloppy, nor dilapidated. And I know that if Rosemary were here, she would give me one of her lovely smiles in reward for my work. This is the first thing that I have done in a while that gave me a challenge and yet was fun is a sense. I begin to realize why Rosemary liked to design clothes.

When the fire is cracking merrily, I put some oats and water in a pot and set it over the flames. The breakfast is dismal, as usual, but we have nothing more.

"Good morning."

I hear Caspia's voice behind me. She is at the table, studying the dress. "What's this for?"

"It's for you," I respond with a small smile. She looks up in surprise at me, and then smiles widely too. For the first time in months, I see delight on her face. And it reminds me that sometimes the simplest things can bring the most joy.

"For me?" she asks wonderingly, feeling the fabric between her fingers. I think she does not recognize the silk, which is a bit of relief.

"For you. And it has a matching hair piece," I say, picking up the pink band. It is a strip of leather, with the silk sewed on top of it. I thought it was a pretty clever design, seeing as I made it up as I went.

"I have never had one before," she breathes, picking it up and running her fingers over it, too. "Who made this?"

"I did."

She gasps and says disbelievingly, "You?"

"Yes, last night when you were sleeping."

And what she does next surprises me. Caspia runs over and throws her arms around me, complementing my work profusely.

"Oh, thank you so much," she murmurs, her voice muffled in my shirt. I hold her awkwardly, patting her back. The last time I remember her hugging me was right before her mother died. And the feeling is comforting.

"Shh," I say, letting her go. "You have to get ready. Today is a reaping day."

The smile slides right off Caspia's face as she remembers the date. There is a moment of tension, and then Caspia says stiffly, "I'll finish breakfast."

I let her, and instead sit at the table. All joy I felt earlier melts away.

It is the reaping. And my Caspia could be snatched away from me. Just like Rosemary.

I try and brush the thought away, but it doesn't leave. I see Caspia, in the arena, alone and injured. I see Caspia, limp and lifeless. I see Caspia, gone like her mother. Just the idea of losing her makes me cringe, and for a moment, I let myself wonder.

_What would I do?_

Caspia sets a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of me, and then sprinkles some sugar and cinnamon on top. I stare at it.

"Where did you get this?" I ask, feeling a little apprehensive.

"I… traded it," she says, but I know she is lying.

"She wouldn't want that," I say quietly. But Caspia understands what I mean. Rosemary wouldn't want her precious little flower throwing her life away for something as silly as cinnamon.

"The odds are in my favor," she muses after a bit. "Today, I mean. My name is only in there twice."

And it's true. I refused to let her get any tesserae. There are kids her age who have six or seven entries already. I promised myself that would never happen, and work my hardest to keep food on the table.

"They are," I agree. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

"But what if I won't?" she asks quietly. I don't answer the question because the same thing is on my mind. There have been children that have been reaped with just one entry.

"Last year it wasn't bad," I say, trying to change the subject.

But, to me, it was. I still remember the acute sense of panic that made my insides tighten in fear. I remember a name being called, a name that wasn't my daughter's. And I remember the deep breath of relief. But now that same apprehension is mounting.

"The oatmeal is good." I try again, as I dig my spoon into my breakfast, which has just cooled down enough where I could eat it.

"I guess," responds Caspia, poking around hers. She doesn't eat it though. And I don't make her.

Instead pursuing a forced conversation, we sit in silence and watch as the sun mounts higher and higher. It must be nearly nine o'clock.

"Let's get you ready," I say. Caspia sighs, but doesn't object, and fetches the wash bin from outside. I begin to heat some water over the fire for her bath.

"The water feels good," says Caspia, emerging from the makeshift bath curtain, a towel wrapped around her, about fifteen minutes later. Caspia's hair falls in curly little ringlets to her shoulders, and her golden-brown skin is glowing.

"You get dressed, and I will dump the water out back," I say, picking up the heavy tub. The dirty water sloshes over the sides and all over the floor, nearly getting on the pink dress.

"No!" Caspia yelps, snatching it off the table, and out of harm's way.

"Good save," I manage to gasp out, and Caspia gives a weak little giggle.

When the water is dumped, and I come back in, Caspia is dressed. She is looking down at the soft folds of silk in amazement. I lean against the door frame, out if her sight, and cross my arms, watching her.

"It's perfect," she says to herself, and then she spins. The airy material billows around her, and she laughs. But her face is almost immediately solemn again.

"Want me to do your hair?" I ask walking into sight and Caspia nods, handing me a brush. I comb through her curly hair, and arrange it into two braids. Then, using a few pins, I wrap them around each other to form an elegant bun. As a finishing touch, I add the headband and turn her around.

Caspia looks beautiful, just like her mother. I smile weakly at her, as her fingers gently probe her hairstyle.

"How does it look?" she asks, tilting her head.

"Perfect," I say, and I honestly mean it.

Outside, we can hear the sounds of other families waking getting ready. There are the cries of children, and the anguished pleads of adults. Because it is nearly noon. Nearly time for the reaping.

"Let's start walking," I say, my hands shaking. Anxiousness has set in full force now, and I can't contain it. Caspia just nods at my suggestion, and I know she is feeling just as nervous.

Together, we walk outside, hand-in-hand, and join the crowd making its way down the dusty streets. All the people around us look gray, and washed out. Stress is written on the parent's faces, and terror on the children's. But now we all walk silently, not one person talks the whole half-hour walk to the city center.

As we approach the packed square, I kiss Caspia's forehead, and squeeze her hands. I notice that her body is racked with tremors and that there are tears on her cheeks. I quickly wipe them away with my thumb.

"Caspia," I say firmly, looking her in the eyes. "You'll be fine, I'm sure of it."

The crowd is pressing against us, pulling us apart. With I final squeeze, I let her hand go. Caspia's form disappears among the other hundreds of kids lining up to be checked in, and I have to take a moment to control myself before joining the other parents at the little roped-off waiting area manned by Peacekeepers. In years past, parents have tried to fight the Peacekeepers. Now, they are fully armed and have the right to fire at any objective parents.

On the stage, there are the two big glass reaping balls. There has to be over eight thousand entries in each, which comforts me. The odds are truly in Caspia's favor.

When the reaping finally begins, we start with the traditional video, which explains the necessity of the Hunger Games. Some parents behind me shake their heads in anger, and I can't help but agree. The Capitol is sick.

Out emerges Hedrida, our district escort for the tributes. She has a pale, pointed face, loaded with white powder, and a hideous orange wig. The things they wear in the Capitol.

Next comes the two mentors, Chaff and Seeder, both looking glum and hunched over. I have never seen them smile, but I guess the job of mentoring each year's tribute and watching them die is taking its toll. Lastly emerges the mayor, a strict man with cold brown eyes. No one here likes the man, because of his cruel way of running our district.

"Welcome to the 71st annual Hunger Games!" says Hedrida, in a fake cheery voice. Under all that makeup, you can tell she is exhausted.

"We shall start with the ladies first, and as always, may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

She puts a manicured hand into the left ball, and plucks up a little white piece of paper. At this point, I can hear my heart thudding in my chest, and feel my breaths coming in short bursts. It seems like an eternity, but she finally reads off the paper.

For a minute, the name doesn't register. And then I know.

_Caspia Ayersion._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Check out JamieOdair's fanfiction! Oh yeah, and I don't own Hunger Games…**

Caspia Ayersion.

I watch as my daughter stumbles onto stage. I watch as she is congratulated. I watch as her shaking figure finds me among the other parents. I watch the tears fall down her face as she meets my gaze.

The male tribute is called, someone who I don't recognize. But I know his parents are feeling the same thing. The emptiness. The blankness. The pain.

I just can't tear my eyes from the girl standing in the frilly pink dress. Somehow, she looks smaller than she really is, like a scared fawn separated from its mother. I want to comfort her. I want to help her. But I can't. And that's what's tearing me apart.

"Families of the tributes," calls a Peacekeeper. A man and a woman step forward. The woman is sobbing so hard she can barely stand, even with the steadying arm of her husband around her. Almost mechanically, I move to the front of the line with them. I feel everyone's eyes on us. I know they can't help but pity our situation, but they are still glad it's our children, and not theirs. I don't want their remorse, though. I want my daughter.

We are lead into a fancy room of the Justice Building, where Hedrida awaits us. She doesn't even smile, like the usual tributes escorts, but asks us wearily, "Who are the parents of Caspia?"

I nod my head, unable to talk. Because I know that when I see Caspia, I need to look composed and strong so she doesn't despair more than she probably already is. How do you say what is likely to be your last goodbye?

A Peacekeeper points to a room down a long hallway and says, "Last on the left."

My feet carry me there, and I open the door quietly. Caspia is by the window, looking down at the scene behind her. I am surprised to hear that she isn't crying.

"Caspia?" I whisper, and she turns around. Her face is red and blotchy, but dry. I notice that her shoulders sag in obvious despair.

I get on my knees and hold out my arms, like I used to do when she was younger. Caspia walks slowly into my embrace, and we hold on to each other for a while, not speaking. I stroke her back to calm her, because she is shaking like a leaf in a strong gale.

"Can you promise me something?" Caspia says after a bit.

"Anything," I answer softly.

"Will you…" she trails off, but doesn't finish. And I don't push her. It seems like any conversation would be strained. But I feel like I have to say _something._

"Caspia-" I start.

"I have no skills, nothing like the Careers," she says tonelessly, cutting me off. "I'm not coming home and I know it."

I am struck dumb by her words, and I don't respond. The thought threatens to shatter what little self-control I have left. Because I know it's probably true. Her chances of surviving are just about nothing.

I tighten my hold on her, trying to remember every detail of her small frame. I stroke her silky hair, and take deep breaths, inhaling her warm, familiar scent. It seems important to memorize all that is my daughter before she's gone and I forget the little things that mean the most.

"I love you, Caspia. I love you so very much," I say, closing my eyes. She starts crying softly into my thin cotton shirt, her warm tears bleeding through and wetting my shoulder.

"I…love you too," she sniffs. "Forever and always."

There is a light knock on the door, and I know I must give her away. Allow her leave, to a place where she very well might meet her death all alone, without comfort.

I let go of her, and stand up. Everything is my world is lopsided and spinning. It feels as if my very soul being torn from my chest. Then complete despair rolls over me. It makes my vision blur, and my head pulse. I'm not in complete control of my limbs, like a poorly controlled marionette. And the pain. The undesirable _pain._

I stand up clumsily. Caspia, who is crying in earnest now, manages to whisper my name. But her voice seems far away. I leave without looking back or responding. Not out of spite, or sadness.

But because I just simply _can't._

Of the next hours, I remember little. Odd little details jump out at me, though, like the lovely color of the golden grain, swaying gently in the wind. And the fresh beauty of the cherry blossoms, with their sweet scent in the air, which so disturbingly reminds me of Caspia. I begin to wonder if I am going mad.

Everything is empty without her. It's like one of the oil color paintings I saw in the Justice Building, except the painting that's now my life is washed out and dull. My hearing is affected too; sounds that are usually quiet reverberate around the walls like the boom of a cannon. I distantly recognize the symptoms of shock.

Hours later, back at home, I sit listlessly at the kitchen table. My eyes are locked on the clock above the bed, watching the hours go by. I lose count after five.

_Tick tock._

The seconds crawl by like years, but eventually dusk falls, yet I don't move. Hunger claws at my stomach, but I don't eat. Tiredness makes my eyes itch, but I don't sleep. Because everywhere I look, I see her. Because every time my eyes close, her face comes to the front of my mind and the pain returns so fiercely, and hurts so terribly, that I want nothing more to simply drift away and leave the mess of my life behind.

_Because I just simply can't take anymore._


End file.
